Zero Minus Ten E-Book

Raymond Benson

• Herausgeber: Ian Fleming Publications
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: James Bond 007
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 437

Beschreibung

Just 10 days before the handover of Hong Kong from British to Chinese rule, 007 is sent to investigate the infamous Chinese underworld of Triad. Discovering a diabolical plot of revenge that threatens to derail the return of the former British colony to China, Bond penetrates a deadly high stakes game of intrigue and treachery.

Leseprobe

Zero Minus Ten

Contents

Introduction

Author note

1: Shamelady

2: Three Events

3: Call to Duty

4: A British Legacy

5: The Pearl in the Crown

6: The Prevailing Wind

7: Jade Dragon

8: Private Dancer

9: Interview with A Dragon

10: Marked for Death

11: Assassination

12: One of the Links

13: Triad Ceremony

14: Bedtime Story

15: Day Trip to China

16: Agony and Anger

17: Men of Honour

18: The Golden Mile

19: Farewell to Hong Kong

20: Walkabout

21: Countdown

22: No Tears for Hong Kong

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Introduction

The call came out of the blue from Peter Janson-Smith in early November 1995.

Peter, who had been Ian Fleming’s literary agent from 1956 until the author’s death in 1964, was then Chairman of Glidrose Publications Ltd, now known as Ian Fleming Publications Ltd.

I had met Peter in 1982 when I was in England researching my non-fiction encyclopaedic work, The James Bond Bedside Companion (first published in the US in 1984 and in the UK in 1988). Since then, Peter and I had become friends, and he had occasionally tapped me to perform odd jobs (no pun intended) for Glidrose.

Peter informed me that John Gardner, who had been writing the Bond continuation novels for the previous fifteen years, had decided to retire from the gig.

‘We wondered if you’d like to give it a shot?’ Peter asked.

Mind you, this was something I had never asked to do, never campaigned for, or even dreamed could be a possibility. So, why me? The success of the Bedside Companion was a factor, certainly, for Peter wanted someone who knew Fleming’s books inside and out – which I did. He was also aware that since the Companion’s publication I had been honing the craft of writing fiction for over a decade by creating complex interactive plots, characters, dialogue and diabolical puzzles and obstacles for some high profile, globally bestselling computer games. Peter had also read my attempt at the proverbial first thriller (the one that goes into a drawer and remains there forever). He had nevertheless seen that I could write – and, more importantly –finish a complete novel.

Peter and I discussed what direction a series of ‘Benson Bonds’ might take. Should we simply follow John Gardner’s path in setting the stories in contemporary times, i.e., the late 1990s? Or should we attempt to go back to the 1950s and 60s? Ultimately, because of EON Productions’ phenomenal triumph with GoldenEye that November, it was decided that I should remain in sync with the current films. In fact, the only other directives I received were that I should try to make my books ‘feel like the current films’ (i.e. with more action and a little humour), and to make my ‘M’ character a woman to dovetail with EON’s new casting of Bond’s boss.

I was fine with all that, but I also wanted my Bond to be as faithful to Fleming’s original character as possible. I wanted all his vices intact – the smoking, drinking and womanising. While my Bond might have, by decree, some of the familiar traits to which modern audiences of the movies were accustomed, I was determined that he also retain much of the cold, hard-edged killer aspects that Fleming had presented in his books. Additionally, I never attempted to pattern my Bond after any of the actors who had played him on film. Instead, to me he was always the shadowy figure that I had imagined when I first read Fleming’s books – someone more akin to John McClusky’s interpretation in the Daily Express comic strips. Later, when readers would tell me, ‘I can picture Sean Connery when I read your books’ or ‘I can visualise Pierce Brosnan’, I was pleased. If readers could envisage their Bond in my novels, then I suppose I succeeded.

Zero Minus Ten began the way I started all my Bond novels. I’d look at a map of the world and pinpoint hot spots about which the UK was concerned. I knew that this first book would be published in 1997 – and the big event that year would be the handover of Hong Kong to China. I performed preliminary research into the history of Hong Kong to learn why Britain owned the colony in the first place and why they weren’t keeping it. It all went back to a war over opium in the 1800s. Britain had won the war and was awarded the land mass that eventually became Hong Kong. However, when the treaty was drawn up, some foolish politician put into it that the UK would return it in one hundred years. I presumed that quite a few Hong Kong residents, especially British businessmen, might be unhappy about suddenly being placed under a communist dictatorship after living in a democratic colony for so long. With that revelation, my plot sprung to life.

The first draft outline was completed by Christmas 1995.

I travelled to almost all the locations in my Bond novels to do the feet-on-the-ground research. In May 1996, my wife and I visited Hong Kong, Kowloon, Macau and China. Some scenes take place in Australia, but I did not feel the need to go there. I had contacts who could provide me with all the information I required for that part of the world. Walking in Bond’s footsteps in the Far East, however, was essential. I stayed at his hotels, ate his food, mapped out action scenes at real sites and explored the Triad underworld. In fact, I spent a day with the Royal Hong Kong Police Triad Division, men who shared with me what were then confidential transcripts of what went on during a secret Triad initiation ceremony. The entire trip was indeed a learning experience in that it not only provided me with the material for the book, but it also instructed me on how to conduct future research excursions.

Further study back home included spending an intense weekend with a Chinese family learning how to play the Hong Kong version of mahjong, for I wanted to include a Fleming-style game of stakes in the book that was different from anything that had gone before.

Zero Minus Ten was finished by September 1996, with only the usual editing and sprucing left to go. Tears welled in my eyes when Peter Janson-Smith phoned me with his verdict. ‘Raymond,’ he declared, ‘you’ve written a Bond novel.’

The book was first published in the UK in April 1997. It was an auspicious beginning to the seven years I spent working as a continuation author for Ian Fleming Publications, and it would only get better. I am still humbly grateful to Peter, and to the Fleming family, for this remarkable opportunity.

Whether you are revisiting this tale or if it’s your first time reading, I hope you will enjoy this trip back in time to the 1990s with agent 007.

Raymond BensonOctober 2023

This novel is dedicated to Randi and Max, and to the people of Hong Kong

Author’s Note

The architecture and layout of the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank is as described in Chapter Eleven. The events and action contained therein, however, are totally imaginary, as the corporation’s highly effective security system would realistically prevent such a scenario. Furthermore, the company EurAsia Enterprises Ltd is entirely fictional and is not intended to represent any existing trading and shipping firm.

Lastly, the actual location for the handover ceremony has not been decided upon at the time of writing. (In fact, China has not yet even agreed to a joint ceremony!) My choice of Statue Square as the site is based on its historical significance and geographical importance to the city, as well as speculation by Hong Kong associates.

1

Shamelady

20 JUNE 1997, 9:55 P.M., JAMAICA

Someone long ago had called it the ‘Undertaker’s Wind’ but hardly anyone in Jamaica referred to it by that name anymore. The Undertaker’s Wind was supposed to blow the bad air out of the island at night. In the morning, the ‘Doctor’s Wind’ would come and blow the sweet air in from the sea. The Undertaker’s Wind was certainly at work that night, whipping the long red strands of the Englishwoman’s hair around her head like the flames of a torch.

The woman was dressed in a skin-tight black diving suit and stood on the cliff above the grotto looking out to sea. Forty stone steps cut into the cliff led down to the grotto, in front of which was a small, sandy beach. It was very dark in the grotto, for the cliffs blocked the moonlight. Up above it was just bright enough for every tree, plant and stone to emit an eerie glow.

The woman glanced at her watch and tapped the button to illuminate the time. He would not be late. He never was.

The grotto and its private beach faced the Caribbean, not far from Port Maria on the North Shore of the island. The small community of Oracabessa was just along the coast to the west, and Cuba was a hundred miles to the north. The area was considered Jamaica’s most lovely coastal country. The woman had never been here prior to this evening, but she knew the layout of the place inside out. It was her job to know. The land was private property and a modest, three-bedroomed house had been built above the grotto near the top of the stone steps. If her plans were successful, the house would later be the location for an evening of unbridled passion and pleasure. The man with whom she hoped to share the pleasure had a reputation which preceded him. Other women who had known him had indiscreetly prepared her for the man’s intense sexual allure. Although accomplishing the Primary Objective was her main goal tonight, one of her motives for participating in the evening’s escapade was a rather selfish Secondary Objective – the physical rewards she would give and receive after the job was done. She couldn’t help it. Danger stimulated her sexually. It was why she had sought a career as a mercenary, a contemporary Boadicea. It was why she liked to play with fire.

‘I’m here,’ a male voice whispered behind her.

‘You’re on time,’ she said.

‘Of course I am,’ the blond man said in a thick Cockney accent, moving closer to stand beside her, looking out to sea. He, too, was dressed in a black diving suit. ‘You know what to do?’ He gazed at her, taking in the shapely body.

The woman knew she was beautiful and that men found her attractive. She enjoyed being able to manipulate them. As she looked at the man, she wondered again if the night would end as she desired.

He had blond curly hair, a muscular build and classical Roman features. Most women, she thought, would gladly follow him anywhere.

‘When he arrives, I get him to come up to the house. You’ll “surprise” us and kill him.’

The man smiled. ‘Too right.’

They were both in their mid-twenties and had trained for weeks to get this far, but already possessed the skill and expertise required by any assassin to perform a simple execution. The job in hand tonight was anything but simple, their target a formidable one.

‘Leave the first part to me, Mr Michaels,’ she said, smiling and rubbing her hand across the man’s chin. ‘Give us a little time, and I’ll have him thoroughly distracted.’

‘Well, don’t get carried away. I don’t want to have to take you out with him.’

‘You sound pretty sure of yourself. Remember who he is.’

‘He’s history.’

As if on cue, a Royal Navy jet suddenly appeared, passing about half a mile from them, heading north out to sea at about 200 knots. They could just see the figure jumping from it.

‘There he is,’ the blond man said. ‘Right on time.’ They clasped hands and he kissed her roughly on the mouth. ‘See you later, love . . . when we’re done.’ And then he was off as she began to walk down the steps into the darkness of the grotto.

The man who made the low-altitude jump from the plane had opened his SAS Modified XL Cloud Type Special Forces rectangular parachute before exiting the aircraft and the jump master threw it out of the plane behind him. It served as not much more than a brake in the short fall, an extremely dangerous manoeuvre over water; but the jumper was a pro who knew what he was doing. He was one of the Double Os.

The woman reached the bottom of the steps and peered out to sea. The man hit the water hard, and for a few moments only his dark parachute could be seen floating on the surface. Then he emerged and divested himself of the parachute. She walked to the edge of the water so that he could see her. The tall, well-built man swam steadily until he was able to stand and walk towards her. He tore off the face mask and snorkel and tossed them aside, and then he stepped out of his fins.

Like the blond man, he had a sexual presence that was so overpowering she had to catch her breath before she spoke.

‘The bad air is blowing out tonight,’ she said.

‘But the sweet air will surely come in the morning,’ he replied as agreed.

‘Right on time, Double O Seven. I’m 05, but you can call me Stephanie. You okay?’ She pronounced the number ‘oh-five.’

‘I’m fine, thanks, and my name’s Bond. James Bond.’

‘It’s pretty dangerous, isn’t it, jumping at such a low altitude?’ she asked, taking his outstretched hand.

‘So long as the parachute is already open when you leave the plane, it’s okay. Did you bring the transmitter?’

In the dim light, his features looked harsher than Stephanie had remembered them. The first time she had seen him was two weeks ago, at the funeral, when she had been struck by his air of casual self-confidence. Dark and handsome, he had piercing blue-grey eyes. His short black hair had just a hint of grey at the temples, was parted on the left, and carelessly brushed so that a thick black comma fell down over the right eyebrow. There was a faint three-inch scar on his right cheek. The longish straight nose ran down to a short upper lip, below which was a wide and finely drawn but cruel mouth.

‘It’s up in the house, Mr Bond. Come, I’ll show you.’ She took his hand and gently pulled him towards the stone steps, then dropped it and walked on ahead. Bond followed her, eyes and ears alert.

She had been told to observe him at the funeral, at which he had remained stubbornly stoical. Commander Bond, like the other pall-bearers, was dressed in Royal Navy uniform with three rows of ribbons. Everyone who was anyone had been there, including Sir Miles Messervy, the recently retired ‘M’, head of SIS; the new ‘M’, a woman only just beginning to take command of the Secret Service; Sir Miles’s faithful secretary, Moneypenny; Major Boothroyd, the Armourer; and even the Prime Minister. When a country loses someone of the stature of Admiral Derek Plasket, all the important people are sure to be there to pay their last respects.

Admiral Plasket was something of a legend. A war hero, he had organised a commando assault team that specialised in raiding Nazi bunkers, collecting intelligence to be passed onto the Allied forces. After the war he had been Special Advisor to the Secret Service, and a personal friend of the old M.

As she had been instructed, Stephanie Lane had kept her eye on Bond throughout the ceremony. He had performed his duties with military precision, standing to attention and displaying no emotion whatsoever. Only afterwards, when she saw him embrace Moneypenny, did she detect some semblance of warmth.

Stephanie had continued her surveillance of 007 for two more weeks, taking note of his daily habits. She had followed him to his flat off the King’s Road in Chelsea, where he lived alone. She tailed him to Blades, that exclusive gentleman’s club which had only recently begun to admit women. She observed him enter the gaudy building across the Thames from the Tate Gallery, which was the SIS headquarters. Finally, after fifteen days, the operation had been arranged and the time had now come. Stephanie had a lot riding on the outcome of this mission, for James Bond was the target in tonight’s Objective and she and her partner must anticipate his every move.

When the attack came, it surprised her – she had thought Michaels would wait until she and Bond were in the house, but he appeared at the top of the stone steps from out of darkness. With a perfectly executed manoeuvre, the man spun and jump-kicked Bond full in the face. The assault surprised Bond as well, for he fell backwards down the steps. Stephanie stood aside while the blond assassin, who was armed with an ASP 9mm semi-automatic handgun, ran down the steps after him.

Bond had rolled halfway down the steps and then stopped. He didn’t move. He lay on his back at a grotesque angle, his head lower than his legs, his shoulders twisted unnaturally.

Michaels raised his gun and pointed it at the still body. ‘Wait,’ Stephanie whispered. ‘I think he’s broken his neck!’

Cautiously, the man moved down to Bond’s body and crouched to examine him more closely.

It was then that Bond made his move. He jackknifed out of his frozen position, thrusting both forearms into the blond man’s face. In a split second, he formed a spear-hand and slammed it down on the man’s right wrist, knocking the ASP onto the steps.

Recovering quickly, Michaels butted Bond in the stomach. Both figures tumbled down to the bottom of the steps and rolled out onto the sand, ending up with the younger man on top with his hands around Bond’s throat.

This boy’s strong, Bond thought.

Stephanie ran down the steps and stood waiting, feeling the adrenalin surge through her body as the two men fought. It gave her a thrill to imagine they were fighting over her. Her breathing became shallow and she felt weak at the knees.

With a superhuman effort, Bond thrust his arms between the other man’s elbows and delivered dual lightning sword-hand chops, which made Michaels loosen his grip. Then, with split-second timing, Bond jerked his head forward against the man’s nose, breaking it and causing him to cry out in pain.

Then they were both on their feet, each waiting for the other to make the next move.

Bond’s Walther PPK was in a waterproof holster attached to the belt round his diving suit. Unfortunately, that was tightly buttoned and it would take more than two seconds to retrieve the weapon. Bond knew he didn’t have two seconds. The young man was good – a bit inexperienced, perhaps, but not someone to underestimate. Bond was ready to concede that the other man was the stronger since, although he was in excellent physical shape, Bond was no youngster anymore.

The blond man made a move. With a shout, he leaped in the air and delivered a Yobi-geri kick to Bond’s chest, knocking him back. The blow was meant to cause serious damage, but it landed too far to the left of the sternal vital-point target. Michaels was momentarily surprised that Bond didn’t fall, but he immediately drove his fist into Bond’s abdomen. That was the assassin’s first mistake – mixing his fighting styles. He was using a mixture of karate, kung fu and traditional western boxing. Bond believed in using whatever worked, but he practised hand-to-hand combat in the same way as he gambled: he picked a system and stuck with it.

By lunging at Bond’s stomach, the man had left himself wide open, enabling Bond to backhand him to the ground. Giving him no time to think, Bond sprang on top of him and punched him hard in the face, but Michaels used his strength to roll Bond over onto his back, and, thrusting his forearm into Bond’s neck, exerted tremendous pressure on 007’s larynx once again. With his other hand, the young man fumbled with Bond’s waterproof holster, attempting to get at the gun. Bond managed to elbow his assailant in the ribs, but this only served to increase his aggression. Bond got his hands round the man’s neck but it was too late; Michaels deftly retrieved the Walther PPK 7.65mm from the holster and jumped to his feet.

‘All right, freeze!’ he shouted at Bond, standing over him, the gun aimed at his forehead. ‘I hit you in a vital point earlier but you didn’t go down,’ he said with incredulity, looking at Bond as if he were a ghost.

007 caught his breath and said, ‘That was your first mistake. You were a half-inch too far to the left.’

The man straightened his arm, ready to shoot.

‘And now you’re making your second mistake,’ Bond said.

‘Oh, yeah?’ Michaels whispered. ‘Not from where I’m standing.’

Bond snapped his legs up and kicked him hard in the groin. Michaels screamed, doubled over, dropped the gun and fell to the ground.

‘You were exposing a vital point, my friend,’ Bond said, getting to his feet and retrieving his Walther PPK. ‘And I do mean vital.’

He leaned over the writhing man. ‘Who are you?’ The man only groaned. ‘Are you going to talk?’ Then he remembered the girl.

Stephanie stood behind them, by the steps. She was uncertain whether to run or drop to her knees.

‘Come here,’ Bond commanded. She stepped forward, looking at the man groaning on the ground. ‘Do you know him?’ Bond snapped.

She shook her head convincingly. ‘No.’

Bond handed her the Walther. ‘Then retire him.’

She looked surprised.

‘He’s an assassin. He came here to kill me,’ Bond said. ‘He knows I live here. I don’t care who he is, just get rid of him.’

She took the pistol and aimed it at her partner. The blond man’s eyes widened. Bond watched her closely. She hesitated, staring at the man on the ground intently.

‘05, I gave you an order,’ Bond said firmly.

The wind howled as the woman stood there frozen.

After ten tense seconds, Bond said, ‘All right. Relax.’

Stephanie dropped her arm and looked dismayed.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t pull the trigger.’

Bond walked over to her and took the gun. ‘If it’s a matter of not blowing one’s cover, a good agent may have to kill an ally or a friend. Don’t ever forget that. You gave yourself away, 05. In the old days, if I had been KGB, or worse, I would have immediately perceived that you not only recognised 03 here, but knew him well.’

‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘You’re right. You really get the unexpected thrown at you in these training missions. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d win the fight – it confused me.’

‘Double Os must expect nothing but the unexpected,’ Bond said. He crouched down to the man he now called 03.

‘How are you, 03? You put up a bloody good fight, lad. You almost had me at one point,’ Bond said with good humour. ‘You blew the mission, Michaels, but you’ll get good marks, don’t worry.’

The man groaned and then vomited.

‘Yes, well, sorry about that, 03,’ Bond said. ‘You’ll feel all right in a few hours. Sometimes Double Os have to learn their lessons the hard way. Remember what you learned about vital-point targets. God knows I did! Better luck next time.’

Bond stood, turned and walked up the stone steps, and Stephanie ran after him.

‘So did you know he was going to be here?’ she asked.

Bond shook his head. ‘No, but I suspected something, especially when you didn’t try to help me. These Double O training sessions you two are taking are also exercises for me. I’m unaware of your objectives and you are unaware of mine. Someone in London orchestrated the entire scenario. Apparently my challenge was dealing with someone who has penetrated the privacy of my home. And I take it you two had a mission to assassinate me?’

She laughed. ‘Yes, real kamikaze stuff, isn’t it? A Single-O agent assassinating a Double O!’ Bond smiled too.

‘Is Agent Michaels going to be okay? Not that he was one of my favourite people. He was always chatting me up.’

‘He’ll be fine. I don’t fight dirty unless I have to, but he left me no choice. Besides, he was careless. I didn’t hurt him badly – he’ll be up and on his way back to Kingston in no time. In any other situation he would have been killed. My kick was nothing compared to a carpet beater.’

‘A what?’ she asked.

‘Never mind,’ he said as he led her onto the top of the cliff. In contrast to the darkness below, up here the moon was very bright, flooding the grounds of the estate in a chalky white light.

Bond had purchased the property a year ago. Even though the heyday of a British Jamaica was long gone, Bond had always loved the island. For years, the memories and dreams he’d had of Jamaica haunted him. He had a compelling desire to be there. When a well-known British journalist and author died, the property became available and Bond bought it. Thus, in addition to his flat in London, he now owned a secluded holiday home on his favourite island. Since buying it, Bond had spent all his available time between missions at the sparsely furnished house. He called it Shamelady, after a plant that grows wild along Jamaica’s North Shore, a sensitive plant that curls up if touched.

Stephanie Lane followed Bond inside. He immediately began removing his wet suit, stripping down to briefs. He seemed oblivious to the fact that a beautiful woman was watching him undress. ‘You know, you should be dead, too,’ Bond said. ‘If you can’t hide convincingly behind a cover, then the cover’s no good.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ she promised. She watched him with increasing interest as she fingered the Walther PPK that he had placed on a coffee table. ‘Isn’t this gun a little old-fashioned?’ she asked. ‘It’s not standard issue, is it?’

‘No, it was once, though,’ Bond said. ‘I was using an ASP for a few years, and I just recently got an urge to use the old one again. I don’t know, it feels very . . . familiar, and I’ve decided to use the Walther again from now on. Old habits die hard.’

Stephanie picked up the gun and pointed it at him.

‘So if I shoot you now, I will achieve my Primary Objective after all,’ she said with no trace of humour.

Bond squinted at her. There was silence. His cold stare dared her to fire.

She pulled the trigger. It clicked empty. Her mouth dropped open.

Bond held out the clip in his hand. ‘You don’t think I’d put a loaded pistol down with a stranger in the room, do you? Sorry, 05. You flunked this one.’ Bond walked into the bedroom. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Make yourself comfortable. But before you get too relaxed, turn on the transmitter and see if there’s anything from London.’

Did Stephanie detect a hint of flirtation in his voice? She smiled. When she heard the shower running, she opened an attache case she had left in the house earlier. Inside was a small black device that looked like an ordinary beeper. She flicked a switch and the code ‘33’ appeared on an illuminated display. Bond would want to know this.

She stepped into the bedroom and called to him: ‘It says 33!’

Bond shouted back from the shower, ‘Damn! That means I have to go back to London as soon as possible. Some kind of emergency . . .’

Stephanie was disappointed. Well, she thought, she had to take what she could get. She unzipped her wet suit, peeled it off and stepped into the bathroom.

She had failed in accomplishing her Primary Objective that evening . . . but if she acted now she would have a little time. It was a shame that the night of pleasure she had anticipated earlier would not last until dawn. If she was lucky, though, she still had an hour or two.

At least she had got the right man. Secondary Objective accomplished! Naked, she pushed back the shower curtain and got in with him.

2

Three Events

17 JUNE 1997, 11:45 P.M., ENGLAND

Approximately seventy-two hours earlier, a large cargo vessel called the Melbourne sailed into the bay between the Isle of Wight and West Sussex, facing Portsmouth. She had travelled thousands of miles in the last few weeks. From Hong Kong, her point of departure, she went to Perth in Western Australia, unloaded cargo, picked up containers and refuelled. From there, she sailed west through the Indian Ocean and around the southern tip of Africa into the Atlantic and onto New York. She stayed in New York Harbour for three days, then finally began the last leg of the voyage to the United Kingdom.

When word of the Melbourne’s arrival reached the desk of the Hampshire Constabulary Tactical Firearms Unit, Sergeant David Marsh picked up the telephone and called his Detective Chief Inspector. The TFUs, along with Firearms Support Teams, are tactical special weapons groups within UK police forces, available twenty-four hours a day. Many of the members of these elite police units are ex-British Forces personnel.

‘She’s here, sir,’ Marsh said when the DCI answered. Marsh listened closely to his instructions and nodded. ‘Consider it done, sir.’ He rang off and dialled a new number. If the tip they had received was correct, there could be trouble.

A lighter had already begun to deliver cargo from the Melbourne to shore. A group of four Chinese men unloaded the large wooden crates from the lighter as soon as it docked and used a forklift to transfer them onto a waiting lorry.

The two token Hampshire Police officers on duty that night, Charles Thorn and Gary Mitchell, walked along the dock area, noting that the weather was unusually pleasant for a June night. Unfortunately, due to a breakdown in communications, they were not apprised of the message that was received by TFU Police Sergeant David Marsh. Even more calamitous was the fact that neither of them was armed.

Thorn suddenly stopped in mid-stride and asked his partner, ‘Do you hear anything?’ In the distance was the whirr of a hydraulic crane used to unload cargo.

Mitchell nodded. ‘Sounds like someone’s unloading. I wasn’t aware of a scheduled docking tonight, were you?’

Thorn shook his head. ‘Customs and Excise didn’t tell me about it. Let’s have a look, shall we?’

The two men hurried around a corner past a warehouse where they could get an unobstructed view of the harbour. Sure enough, four men were loading crates onto a lorry.

‘Where are Customs and Excise? They should be supervising the unloading, shouldn’t they?’ Mitchell asked.

‘Unless this is an unscheduled unloading,’ Thorn said. He quickly radioed his office to request additional officers. The Communication Centre Dispatcher informed them that the Hampshire Constabulary TFU was on the way and to stay put.

The Chinese were finished with the lighter and it was already pulling away. The lorry was nearly full – only two crates remained on the ground. They would be gone in minutes.

‘We have to stop them,’ Thorn said. ‘Come on.’

The two men stepped into view of the Chinese men. ‘Good evening,’ Thorn called out to them. ‘Like to tell us what you’re doing?’

One of the Chinese stepped out of the truck and produced some papers. Thorn glanced at them. ‘You know this is highly irregular, sir. Customs and Excise are supposed to clear your unloading. What have you got in those crates?’ The Chinese man, who apparently spoke little English, pointed to the papers.

‘Right,’ said Sergeant Thorn, looking closely at the shipping numbers and comparing them to the crates. One was still on the ground, the other on the forklift. ‘That one has half a ton of tea, and the other one is what?’

The Chinese man smiled. ‘Toys. Made in Hong Kong.’

Mitchell whispered to Thorn, ‘Imports from the Far East generally come into Southampton.’

Thorn nodded and said aloud, ‘Let’s open ’em up now, all right?’

Mitchell took a crowbar from the side of the hydraulic crane and prised the lid off the wooden crate. It was filled with straw, styrofoam and large bags labelled with Chinese characters. Mitchell opened one of the bags and found dozens of smaller bags inside marked with similar characters. He tossed one of the small bags to Thorn, who promptly used a pocket knife to open it. It was full of tea.

‘Fine,’ Thorn said. ‘Let’s open the other one.’

As the forklift was pulled in front of the officers, a fully marked TFU jeep containing four men, including Sergeant Marsh, sped quickly into the cargo area of the dock and stopped.

‘Sergeant Marsh,’ Thorn said. ‘Good to see you. It seems these chaps aren’t aware of Customs and Excise standard operating procedures.’

‘A word with you, Sergeant?’ Marsh said, gesturing towards the jeep. Mitchell watched Marsh whisper to Thorn, then glanced over to the four Chinese men who had gathered near the forklift. They were all young, probably in their late teens or early twenties.

The conference was over. Marsh took the crowbar from Thorn and slammed it into the side of the crate containing the tea, cracking one of the side panels. He then worked the panel off, exposing a mess of straw packing. Marsh dug into the packing with the crowbar, pulling it out.

‘We have reason to believe you’ve got something hidden in here,’ Marsh said to one of the Chinese. The sharp end of the crowbar struck a large canvas bag, bursting it. A white, crystalline powder oozed out of the tear. Having just completed a two-year tour of duty in the Hampshire Constabulary’s Drug Squad, Marsh hadn’t shaken the habit of carrying a drug test kit with him. He quickly retrieved a plastic vial from the kit, opened it and scooped a bit of the white powder into the vial with his finger. He replaced the cap and shook the vial vigorously, mixing the white powder with a reagent. The clear liquid changed colour.

Marsh turned to the Chinese men. ‘I have reason to believe this is heroin. Now I’m going to have to place you under . . .’

Fully automatic machine-gun blasts interrupted him. Taken by surprise, Mitchell and Thorn were the first to fall. Fortunately for Marsh, his team had come prepared.

Marsh hit the ground and quickly rolled behind the crate, shielding himself from the barrage of bullets. The three other officers also leaped for cover. Using MP5 Standard Operating Rifles, the TFU returned fire on the Chinese. Even though the weapons were single-shot only, the TFU were sharpshooters. One Chinese went down.

Marsh was armed with a Smith and Wesson 15 Mag Self Loading pistol. He peered around the container and got off a couple of shots before a hail of bullets tore into the side of the crate, forcing him back.

The Chinese were formidable opponents who knew how to use their guns, which to Marsh looked like MACH 10s. He knew that they were really COBRAYs, a 9mm machine gun modelled after the MACHs. Even though they were not well-made, criminal gangs favoured COBRAYs because they were sold and traded in pieces and were therefore easily concealed.

After a minute it was almost over. All but one of the Chinese were dead. There were no casualties on Marsh’s team. The lone Chinese gunman realised the predicament he was in and attempted a kamikaze stunt. He yelled something in Cantonese and ran towards Marsh, his gun blasting wildly. Marsh threw caution to the wind. He stood up, used both hands to steady his pistol, aimed at the running man and squeezed the trigger. The man jerked back and fell to the ground.

Marsh breathed a sigh of relief, then ran to where Thorn and Mitchell lay. The TFU member everyone called ‘Doc’ was attending to the two constables, but he turned to Marsh and shook his head.

Marsh frowned, then barked an order to one of his men. ‘Get Doc some help for these officers and get in touch with the DCI. Tell him the tip was good. Tell him the villains would have got away if they hadn’t been detained by two brave Hampshire Police officers.’

18 JUNE 1997, 8:00 P.M., HONG KONG

Of Hong Kong’s many attractions, elegant restaurants on boats provide visitors not only with a superb dinner, but with one of the best tourist attractions of Aberdeen’s Shum Wan Harbour on the South Shore of the island. Most of them are linked together by walkways, and their ornate gilded and painted facades look particularly glorious lit up at night. One such ‘floating restaurant’, the Emerald Palace, had been booked for a special event on 18 June and was closed to the public.

EurAsia Enterprises, an old-established shipping and trading corporation owned privately by a British family since the mid-nineteenth century, was holding a dinner for its chairman who was retiring after thirty years of service. A swing band, made up entirely of Chinese musicians, was playing surprisingly faithful renditions of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman hits as the dance floor filled with formally dressed British men and women.

Guy Thackeray, the corporation’s forty-eight-year-old CEO, had lived in Hong Kong all his life. His great-great-grandfather had founded EurAsia Enterprises in 1850, not long after Hong Kong was ceded to Britain. The family had steadfastly refused to allow the corporation to go public, and Guy Thackeray presently found himself the sole owner of 59 per cent of the company’s stock. The remaining stock was held by other members of the Board of Directors, including John Desmond, the retiring chairman. All of them were present, sitting with their spouses at the top table.

Guy Thackeray felt out of place at his own company’s events. The past month had been hell. As the first of July deadline approached, he was becoming more desperate and anxious. The secret burden he held on his shoulders regarding EurAsia Enterprises’ future was taking its toll. He knew that very soon he would have to make public a fateful bit of knowledge, but it would not be tonight.

Thackeray surveyed the dance floor, catching the eye of a friendly face here and there and nodding his head in acknowledgement. He glanced at his watch. It was almost time for his speech. He took a last swig of his gin and tonic and approached the podium.

Back in the kitchen, the sixty-one-year-old Chinese cook, Chan Wo, grumbled to himself. He enjoyed cooking and considered himself one of the best chefs in Hong Kong. In fact, the Emerald Palace’s reputation had been built on Chan’s ability to create magnificent concoctions in the Szechuan, Cantonese and Mandarin styles of Chinese cuisine.

Glancing at the new order brought to him by a waiter, he shrugged and walked over to the large metal refrigerator to fetch more previously prepared uncooked dumplings. Much to his dismay, they weren’t inside. Had he used them all already? Chan Wo silently cursed his assistant. Bobby Ling must have forgotten to make more that afternoon.

‘Bobby!’ he called. The kid was probably in the storeroom. ‘Bobby!’ he shouted again. Chan slammed the refrigerator shut and left the kitchen.

The storeroom was adjacent to the kitchen, conveniently soundproofed from the noise in the dining areas. Chan thought he wouldn’t mind hiding in the storeroom for a while, too; he couldn’t blame Bobby for taking a break. Chan entered the container-filled room. It was dark, which was odd. He could have sworn Bobby was here. Chan flicked on the light switch. Nothing but boxes piled on other boxes, cans and containers. ‘Bobby, where the hell are you?’ Chan Wo asked in Cantonese. Then he saw the tennis shoes.

Bobby Ling was out cold, lying between two stacks of cardboard boxes. Chan bent down to examine the motionless body. ‘Bobby?’

Chan never knew what hit him. All he felt was a lightning bolt in the back of his neck, and then there was blackness.

The instrument that broke Chan Wo’s neck was a heavily callused hand belonging to a man whose appearance was undoubtedly unusual, even in a densely populated area like Hong Kong. He was Chinese, but his hair was white as snow, his skin very pale – almost pink – and behind the dark sunglasses were pinkish-blue eyes. He was about thirty years old, and he had the build of a weight-lifter.

The albino Chinese grunted at the two dead figures on the floor, then moved to the only porthole in the room. He opened it, leaned out and looked down at the water where a rowing boat containing two other men was rocking steadily next to the larger floating restaurant. The albino loosened a coil of rope he had over his shoulder and threw one end out of the window. Next, he braced himself by placing one foot on the wall beneath the window, and clutched the rope tightly. One of the men from the boat took hold of the rope and swiftly climbed up to the window. The albino was strong enough to hold the rope and the other man’s weight.

The other figure appeared in the porthole and snaked through, dropping to the floor. He also had a full head of white hair, pinkish skin and sunglasses, and was about thirty years old. While the first albino secured the rope to a post, the second opened a backpack, removed some instruments and set to work.

Meanwhile, in the dining room, Guy Thackeray stopped the music and began his speech.

‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t always give credit where credit is due. On such a special occasion as tonight, I must apologise for that oversight. Everyone who works for me and for EurAsia Enterprises is always deserving of praise. I want you to know that I am very proud of each and every one of you. It is because of you that EurAsia Enterprises is one of the leading shipping and trading establishments in the Far East. But it also took someone with superior management skills, leadership and fortitude to guide this great ship of ours through sometimes troubled waters. For thirty years he has been an inspiration and mentor to us all.’ He looked straight at John Desmond and said, ‘And you’ve been something of an uncle, or perhaps a second father, to me personally, John.’

Desmond smiled and shifted in his seat, embarrassed. He was nearly eighteen years older than Thackeray and unlike the CEO, Desmond had been born and raised in Britain, having moved to Hong Kong in the early fifties.

Thackeray continued, ‘If ever there was a person deserving of a distinguished service award, it is John Desmond. I, for one, shall miss him. He will be leaving us as of the end of June. What’s the matter, John, afraid the Communists will take away your health benefits come the first of July?’

There was laughter and applause.

‘Anyway,’ Thackeray continued, ‘without further ado, allow me to present you with this plaque. It reads “To John Desmond, in recognition of his thirty years’ distinguished service at EurAsia Enterprises.”’

There was more applause as Desmond left his seat and approached the podium. The two men shook hands. Desmond then turned to the room and spoke into the microphone.

‘Thank you, everyone. It’s been a wonderful thirty years,’ he began. ‘EurAsia Enterprises has been good to me. Hong Kong has been good to me. I don’t know what the future will bring after the first of July but I’m sure . . .’ Desmond hesitated. He seemed to be searching for the appropriate words. ‘. . . it will be business as usual.’

Everyone in the room knew that on 1 July Britain would no longer be in possession of Hong Kong. The entire colony would be handed over to the People’s Republic of China at 12:01 a.m. Despite China’s assurances that Hong Kong would remain a capitalist and free-enterprise zone for at least fifty years, no one could be sure.

‘I wish you all the best of luck,’ Desmond continued. ‘Thank you again. And to my good friend Guy Thackeray, the man who really guides EurAsia Enterprises, a very special thank you.’

During the applause, the two men shook hands again. Then Thackeray signalled the band leader and the room filled with the swinging rhythm of Glenn Miller’s ‘Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand’.

Thackeray accompanied Desmond back to the table. ‘John, I have to get back to Central,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’ll see you at the office tomorrow?’

‘Leaving so soon, Guy?’ Desmond asked. ‘Whatever for?’

‘I left some unfinished business at the office which must be taken care of. Listen . . . enjoy your party. I’ll speak to you soon.’

‘Guy, wait,’ Desmond said. ‘We need to talk about things. You know we do.’

‘Not now, John. We’ll go over it tomorrow at the office, all right?’

Guy walked away without another word. With concern, John Desmond watched his friend leave the room. He knew that the roof was going to cave in when the rest of the Board discovered what he had learned only two days ago. He wondered how Guy Thackeray was going to emerge unscathed.

Guy Thackeray stepped out of the dining room, onto the deck and into a small shuttle motorboat. The boat whisked him to shore, where his personal limousine was waiting. In a flash it was off to the north part of the island and the panorama of buildings and lights.

By then, the two strange albino Chinese had finished their work. The first man slithered through the storeroom porthole, slid down the rope and dropped into the waiting rowing boat. His brother followed suit, and moments later the boat was heading east towards a yacht waiting some two hundred metres away. The third man, the one rowing, also had a full head of white hair, pinkish skin and sunglasses. Not only were the albino brothers the most bizarre trio in the Far East, they were also the most dangerous.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, the Emerald Palace exploded into flames. The brunt of the detonation enveloped the dining room, and the dance floor caved inward. It didn’t happen fast enough for the terrified people caught inside the death-trap. Those not burned alive were drowned trying to escape. In twelve minutes, the structure had completely submerged. Everyone was killed, including John Desmond and the entire Board of Directors of EurAsia Enterprises.

21 JUNE 1997, 11:55 A.M., WESTERN AUSTRALIA

At approximately the same moment that James Bond fell asleep on a red-eye flight from Kingston, Jamaica to London, the sun was beating down on the Australian outback. A young Aboriginal boy who frequented this area of the desert in search of kurrajong, an edible plant, was still frightened of the white men he had seen earlier. The men had driven to this isolated location in four-wheel drives, which the boy knew only as ‘cars.’

The boy’s family lived at a campsite about a mile away and had done so for as long as he could remember. He knew that further south, more than a day’s walking distance, were towns populated by the white men. To the east, closer to Uluru, the mystical rock-like formation in the desert which the white men called ‘Ayers Rock’, there were even more encroachments on the Aboriginal home territory.

The white men had arrived early that morning in two ‘cars’. They had spent an hour at the site, digging in the ground and burying something. Then they left, heading south towards the white man’s civilisation. They had been gone three hours before the boy decided to inspect the ground.

The dig occupied an area about six feet in diameter. The dirt was fresh but had already begun to bake and harden in the sun. The boy was curious. He wanted to know what the white men had hidden there, but he was afraid. He knew that he might get into trouble if he was seen by the white men, but now there was no one else around. He thought he should go and find a lizard for that evening’s meal, but his desire to inspect the burial mound was too great.

If he had been wearing a watch, it would have read exactly 12 noon when the sun exploded in his face.

The nuclear explosion that occurred that day two hundred miles north of Leonora in Western Australia sent shock waves throughout the world. It was later determined that the device had roughly three-quarters the power of the weapon that destroyed Hiroshima: the equivalent of approximately 300 tons of TNT. The blast covered an area of three square miles. It was deadly, indeed, but crude by today’s standards. Nevertheless, had there been a city where the bomb was buried, there would surely have been nothing left of it.

Within hours, an emergency session of the United Nations degenerated into nothing but a shouting match between the superpowers. No one knew what had happened. Australian officials were completely baffled. Inspectors at the site came up with nothing aside from the fact that a ‘home-made’ nuclear device had been detonated. Everyone was grateful that it had been in the middle of the outback, where they assumed there had been no casualties.

What was truly frightening, though, was the implication of the location. It was, in all probability, a test. Someone – a terrorist group or a foreign power operating in Australia – was in possession of rudimentary nuclear weapons.

As Australia, the United States, Russia and Britain combined forces to investigate the explosion and search for answers, they also waited for the imminent claim of responsibility and possible blackmail. It never came. When James Bond arrived in London in the early hours of the same day, London time, the nuclear explosion was still a total mystery.

3

Call to Duty

ZERO MINUS TEN: 21 JUNE 1997, 10:15 A.M., ENGLAND

James Bond never had trouble sleeping on a plane, and the flight from Jamaica to England was no exception. He felt refreshed and alert when the office car pulled into the high-security SIS parking garage by the Thames. Things were so open now: Bond was one of the few veterans still around who could remember a time when SIS hid behind the front of Universal Export Ltd.

The British Secret Service had a relatively new leader. Her name was no longer a secret, but Bond would never dare address her by name, just as he had never addressed his irascible former chief, Sir Miles Messervy, that way. Since his retirement, Sir Miles had mellowed considerably. He often invited Bond to Quarterdeck, his home on the edge of Windsor Great Park, for a dinner party or a game of bridge. They still met from time to time at Blades. Once they were strictly a superior officer and a civil servant with mutual respect for each other; but now, after all the years, they were close friends. Even so, Bond had consciously to refrain from addressing the man as ‘sir’.